Lazarus
by Beast of the Sea
Summary: "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." /Character un-death/
1. Code: Veronica

Lazarus

**Summary**: "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." (Character un-death)

**Fandom**: Biohazard/Resident Evil: Code Veronica X

**Date written**: September 20, 2011

**Rating**: T

**Word Count**: 507

**Disclaimer**: CAPCOM owns Biohazard/Resident Evil; I do not. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

* * *

Pain blossomed through the right side of his chest like some horrible flower's roots stabbing through his flesh, twisting and turning through the meat of his muscles until they had firmly anchored themselves around his bones, so that the process of digesting him for nutrients could begin. A shriek began in his foggy brain, but his numb jaw would not move; nor would his body convulse in pain, for his muscles would not twitch.

As the moments passed, his heart transitioned from slow and painless beats to savage, actually painful pounding, as if a Hunter's clawed, scaled hand had ripped into his chest and seized the organ, forcing it to beat through ever faster and more vicious squeezes, curious as to how much punishment the muscle could tolerate before bursting in a shower of gore. In contrast, the faint whispers in and out of his lungs maintained an inhuman regularity, despite the best efforts of his disoriented, panicked mind to inhale sharply and scream.

Agony radiated outward from the inferno in his chest, burning its way down his limbs and then through his extremities; his muscles gave a single weak spasm, but, aside from that, remained unmoving. He became aware that, even were his muscles responsive, they wouldn't have been good for much; even clawing his way across a floor would be an undertaking requiring colossal willpower. His mind collapsed into sobs of delirious indignation, feeling that such insult added to injury was simply too much.

He didn't even know what had happened to him; he didn't even know what was happening. It hurt so much. Why did it have to hurt so much? Was this the T-Virus? No, no, he didn't want to be a zombie, he didn't want to be dead –

A moment of clarity burst through the pain: he was dead. Or should have been dead. Not due to the T-Virus, though; he remembered bleeding out, his body cooling and numbing and brain shutting down even as he forced it to… to… he couldn't remember precisely what… The fog of pain threatened to swallow his mind again, but he fought to focus. If he had died, then how–

Once, long ago, Alexia had spoken to him of life and of death; he struggled to recall her exact words, harder even than he had struggled to keep up with her at the time, and a fragmentary but clear memory of her voice came into his mind:_"-so long as the brain remains sufficiently undamaged by lack of oxygen, the consciousness can theoretically be restored, provided that oxygenated blood flow to the brain can also be restored. Nothing is mystical about death, brother; it is merely a system's ceasing to function-"_

But who had done that?

And whose gloved hand gently stroked his hair, and in whose lap did his half-delirious head rest?

As if in answer, a voice familiar from dreams and fantasies, but gone from life for fifteen years, began to sing:

"_There was a friendly but naïve king, who wed a very nasty queen…_"


	2. Darkside Chronicles

Lazarus (Type 2)

**Summary**: "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." (Character un-death)

**Fandom**: Biohazard/Resident Evil: Darkside Chronicles (Game of Oblivion)

**Rating**: T

**Word Count**: 739

**Disclaimer**: CAPCOM owns Biohazard/Resident Evil; I do not. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

**Author's Note**: The Darkside Chronicles version.

* * *

The first thing he remembered was his broken body hitting the floor, the pain of the impact shocking him back into one last gasp of consciousness.

Then came the potent burning in every part of his flesh, culminating in a sickening sudden agony accompanied by a great deal of squelching. After a moment, he realized it was his bones knitting themselves back together. Consciousness ceased again.

Then the cruel, cruel thing kicked him in the ribs, bringing him awake as he choked and coughed out blood – Wait… did consciousness have a foot? It didn't really, did it… Then who –

"Consider that your honorable discharge," a woman's – really more of a girl's – said lazily. It giggled after a moment. "You didn't think you were being _killed_, did you? Oh, ye of little faith. And here I thought you said you would always trust me to know best."

He raised his head, bloody saliva dribbling from his mouth, and tried to focus; above him stood a blurry lavender-clad figure, its hands on its hips. "Oh, you _are_ funny. It was always one of your best traits, you know; you certainly aren't very competent. You couldn't even wake me up on time!" The voice giggled again.

"Alexia?" he gasped, his breath feeble.

"Did it take you this long? The years don't seem to have made you any smarter, I'm afraid. Why are you wearing make-up? Oh, never mind; it's not very important. Get up, now – I don't want to have taken the time to revive you and have you choke on your own blood."

He tried to push himself upright, squeezing his eyes shut in pain as his still-sore limbs shrieked in protest; a hand seized him by the back of his jacket and yanked him into the air, then unceremoniously deposited him on his desk. "Good enough, I suppose," said the voice, already sounding bored. "I could have been kinder about injuring you to the point where Veronica would instantly take over, but I thought you should suffer a bit – don't you agree? You didn't do a very good job, after all. Not waking me up on time, letting intruders run around in the base… Still, I suppose you really didn't _fail_, which is why you're not joining Father in that underground cell. Where is Father, anyway? Oh, well, I suppose he ran off. If he's not already dead, I'll deal with him later."

A creeping horror had engulfed his mind; whoever this woman was or claimed to be, she didn't sound like Alexia. At all. Not a single mannerism remained that had been hers; this manic chattering bore no resemblance to her cold, reasonable speech. What had happened? What had gone wrong? Was this a side effect of the cryogenic suspension, or the fault of the T-Veronica virus?

It occurred to him, almost blasphemously, that Alexia had ascertained that the properly-matured T-Veronica would not affect intelligence, but had never thought to determine what other psychological changes it might induce.

"Oh, do stop looking so worried, brother," the voice said, softening, and for a moment, it had a trace of Alexia in it, put-upon but affectionate. "If you need something to do, go off to Rockfort, or whichever of our manors you care to visit. I'll be along shortly." A hand briefly touched his forehead, but then the shrill giggle resurfaced, and Alexia was gone. "Or eventually. I do have lab rats to play with, you know. And so cute, too! I wonder if I'll try out the boy first, or the girl? Maybe both at once? That way, I can compare them side-by-side…" He heard footsteps bounce off, and giggling trailed in their wake.

An indeterminate amount of time – half a minute or half an hour – after the owner of that voice had departed, he heaved himself upright and immediately collapsed into his chair, breathing hard as he felt strength returning to his limbs, and more than he had ever had before. Surely some of Alexia still remained, he thought, pressing one hand to his forehead. There had been enough of her to take mercy on him, hadn't there, in some distorted way… and he had heard her for a moment, he knew he had…

Letting out a groan, he concluded there was _one_ thing he knew for certain.

No matter what else was true, he wanted nothing more in the world than to get out of this horrible place.


End file.
